


The CRUEL of Baskerville

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Spooky Johnlock Stories [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Forced Orgasms, Happy Ending, M/M, Prostate Stimulation, Sounding, Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, a dash of humor, a pinch of horror, a soupçon of fluff, an overflowing cauldron of porn, everything that happens between John and Sherlock is completely consensual, what happens with the tentacle monster is another matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Something is lurking in the Cephalopod Research Underwater Experimentation Laboratory — something with which Sherlock and John are about to become intimately acquainted…





	The CRUEL of Baskerville

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexxphoenix42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/gifts).



> Please mind the tags and the archive warning.

The last thing John is aware of is Sherlock, pressed against his side…

 

…

 

The first thing John is aware of is Sherlock, pressed against his side. Okay — that’s familiar. But a chunk of time seems to be missing. As do their clothes.

 

John’s brain is foggy. Did he fall asleep? Did he hit his head? Has he been drugged? 

 

He blinks in the dim light, trying to get his bearings. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and he closes them again.

 

When John regains consciousness, some time later, his mind is much clearer. Before opening his eyes, he takes stock of his body. He is naked, lying on his back on what feels like a metal grate. His left arm and leg are spread wide and taut, secured to the bars of the grate by something cool and slimy, with a rubbery give to it.

 

A warm body lies snug against the length of John’s right side. He knows without looking that it is Sherlock. John’s right leg is bound from thigh to ankle to Sherlock’s left leg by coils of the same cool, slimy material. Their joined arms are stretched overhead, similarly bound.

 

John attempts to move. His bonds tighten.

 

Reluctantly, John opens his eyes. He turns toward Sherlock, who is regarding him with concern.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah. I just blacked out there, for a moment. What happened?”

 

“You were unconscious for approximately ten minutes longer than I was. I have no way of knowing how long I was out. What do you remember?”

 

“We’re at Baskerville on a case for Lestrade. You bluffed your way in, pretending to be Mycroft. We followed the suspect down to the Cephalopod Research Underwater Experimentation Laboratory, and were hiding in a cupboard to observe him. Then I woke up here — wherever _here_ is.”

 

“I’m afraid _here_ is the chamber we observed our suspect entering.”

 

“The one marked RESTRICTED, and DANGER, and WARNING: FOR YOUR SAFETY, DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT ELECTRIC PROD?”

 

“That would be the one.”

 

“Well, fuck. I don’t suppose you have the electric prod?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Do we know what was behind that door?”

 

“Not exactly. But from the name of the lab, the sound of sloshing water, and the tentacles wrapped around our arms and legs, it doesn’t take a genius to deduce there’s some kind of enormous cephalopod in a tank below us.”

 

“So octopus, or squid, or…?”

 

“Or some genetically engineered hybrid, considering we’re at Baskerville.”

 

“Great. And what’s the plan for getting us out of here?”

 

“For the moment, I suggest we wait and observe. I’ve already ascertained that attempting to move only causes the creature to tighten its grip. Sooner or later, Mycroft will be tipped off to the fact that I used his ID, and he’ll send someone to check up on us.”

 

John sighs. This is by no means the worst predicament he and Sherlock have found themselves in, but it’s rather unsettling to be pinned down naked on a metal grate with who knows _what_ lurking in the water below. 

 

…

 

_Rather unsettling_ soon gives way to _downright alarming,_ as additional tentacles begin to creep up through the grate. They slither wetly over John’s body, and over Sherlock’s. Some are as thick as John’s upper arm, others as slender as strands of spaghetti. Some are completely smooth, some have rows of suckers along the underside, and some terminate in a single sucker at the tip. John squirms as the tentacles glide over his skin, but this only causes the ones securing his arms and legs to increase their grip.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, striving to keep the panic out of his voice, “what is it doing?”

 

“Notice how the tentacles are stroking us gently? Perhaps it’s trying to calm us.”

 

“Well, it’s not working!” John snaps, struggling to free himself.

 

“Hold still,” Sherlock says. “We don’t want to antagonise it.”

 

_“We_ don’t want to antagonise _it?!_   Who’s lying here, minding their own business, and who’s doing the groping?”

 

“Cephalopods are highly intelligent, John, and you can bet this one possesses enhanced cognitive abilities. The Baskerville scientists have been experimenting on it for who knows how long. Now it’s been presented with the opportunity to do some experimenting of its own. Can you blame it for wanting to learn more about human anatomy?”

 

“Sherlock!” John shouts, as one of the tentacles begins to probe between his legs. “How can you be so calm when we’re about to be raped by a giant tentacle monster!”

 

“I’d hardly call it rape, John. Just think of it as a physical examination.”

 

John tries to do as Sherlock suggests, willing himself to relax. His mind understands that struggling is futile, but his body refuses to cooperate. He gasps as one of the tentacles pushes through his tightly clenched anal sphincter. 

 

_“Fuck!”_

 

“Fortunately, the tentacles secrete some sort of mucus, which serves as an effective natural lubricant,” Sherlock says conversationally. “Otherwise, this would be much less pleasant.”

 

John stares at him. Sherlock’s pupils are dilated. Is that a response to the dim light, or… 

 

John lifts his head, peering down Sherlock’s body. Several tentacles are twining around his cock, which stiffens as John watches.

 

“Oh my god! You’re getting off on this!”

 

“A perfectly normal reaction to physical stimulation,” Sherlock says, unperturbed.

 

John’s reply dies in his throat, as several slender tentacles coil around his own flaccid cock. They grasp his foreskin and draw it downward, exposing the sensitive glans. John stares in horror as a much larger tentacle with a sucker at its tip rises up through the grate. He cries out as it latches on to the head of his cock, exerting a powerful suction.

 

The large tentacle drags John’s cock straight up by the head, while the smaller ones begin undulating in rhythmic waves up and down the shaft. It’s a bizarre — and arousing — sensation. Against his will, John’s cock begins to swell.

 

John can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him. He flushes hot with embarrassment.

 

“As I said, John, it’s a perfectly natural response. Which, as a doctor, I’m sure you know.”

 

“There is nothing natural about this situation,” John grits out between clenched teeth. “And I don’t want anyone — or any _thing_ — but you touching me like this.”

 

“While I’m flattered by your loyalty, rest assured that I will not consider you unfaithful if you experience an orgasm as a result of prolonged genital stimulation. I myself may be unable to stave off climax much longer, as the tentacle inside my rectum has discovered my prostate, and is very insistently nudging against it.”

 

Sherlock’s matter of fact words are belied by the low breathiness of his voice. John is intimately acquainted with that tone, and he has a Pavlovian response to it. In seconds, he is fully hard.

 

Perhaps encouraged by this, the tentacles on John’s cock increase their pace. Meanwhile, the one in his arse surges forward against his prostate. John groans.

 

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock reiterates. “Just let go.”

 

But it’s not okay with John. He did not consent to this. He does not want this. Even if he weren’t in a committed relationship with Sherlock, he’s never had the slightest interest in bestiality. This creature — whatever it is — is violating his body, and he does _not_ want to be turned on by it.

 

He _is_ turned on, though. There’s suction on the head of his cock, and slick, tight coils sliding up and down his shaft, and a rolling pressure against his prostate. And there’s Sherlock, pressed warm and familiar against his side, breathing hard, and tensing the way he always does before he comes. 

 

Suddenly it’s all too much. John’s balls draw up tight and he comes with a shocked gasp.

 

The sucker on the head of his cock immediately releases its hold, but the other tentacles do not. They continue their rhythmic movements as he ejaculates, squeezing out every last drop of semen. Soon oversensitivity sets in, but still they continue their slick glide. John tries to pull away, but of course there’s nowhere to go.

 

Just as John is sure he can’t bear another moment, the tentacles finally loosen their grip. His relief is short-lived, however. A long, thin tentacle snakes up over his glans and begins to burrow into his slit. 

 

John cries out and thrashes his pelvis, frantically trying to dislodge it, but this only results in a tightened grip on his oversensitive shaft by several more tentacles, as the one inside his cock wriggles its way deeper and deeper.

 

Sherlock must be receiving the same treatment, because he begins to narrate the tentacle’s path. He’s clearly striving for the detachment of scientific objectivity, but his voice becomes more and more ragged the further the tentacle penetrates. 

 

“It’s investigating the meatus… Now it’s exploring the urethra… Oh! The urethra passes directly through the prostate… Ah! Ah! It’s…ahh…it’s breaching the ejaculatory duct… ahhh… it’s entering the seminal vesicle… ohhh… ohhh… vas deferens… ahhh…ahhh… testes… ahhhh…”

 

Sherlock’s words devolve into whimpering gasps. 

 

John barely registers the sound, caught up in the horrifying progress of a tentacle through his own genital tract. It’s not painful, exactly, but it feels so, _so_ wrong. The tentacle expands and contracts as it inches forward, stretching places that were never meant to be stretched. When it reaches his prostate — from the _inside_ — John’s entire body jolts.

 

He hardly notices as the tentacle inside his arse retreats. A moment later, he cries out in shock as it is replaced by a much thicker one. The sucker at its tip homes in on his prostate, squeezing it through his rectal wall, compressing it around the slender, pulsing tentacle within. 

 

John wails, writhing helplessly, as his cock surges back to full hardness. The tentacles coiled around it slide tightly up and down its length, driving him closer and closer to another orgasm his wrung-out body simply can’t produce.   

 

John is shaking now, full-body shudders that do nothing to relieve the building tension in his aching balls. Next to him, he can feel Sherlock trembling. The sound of his soft, desperate moans is both heartbreaking and unbearably erotic. 

 

Time stands still. John teeters on the brink, suspended between pleasure and pain, between explosive climax and longed-for oblivion. It seems impossible that he will survive this. It simply can’t go on.

 

It does.

 

…

 

A sudden bang and flash of light herald the arrival of Lestrade, who stands, stupefied, in the now-open doorway. In his hand is the electric prod.

 

“Zap it!” Sherlock shouts.

 

Lestrade hesitates. “I don’t want to electrocute you…”

 

**_“ZAP IT!!!”_ **

 

Lestrade touches the tip of the prod to the nearest part of the creature. The high-voltage current travels along the tentacles inside John’s cock and arse, arcing white-hot through his prostate, trapped between them.

 

John convulses, screaming, before merciful blackness pulls him under.

 

…

 

The first thing John is aware of is Sherlock, pressed against his side. 

 

Sherlock’s hand strokes his face, and John opens his eyes.

 

“It’s over, John,” Sherlock says. “It’s over.

 

…

 

It’s not over, of course. There are questions to answer, medical exams to endure, statements to sign, and the trip back to Baker Street. But, at long last, John finds himself safe, at home, in bed with Sherlock.

 

Then there are tender kisses, and murmured reassurances, and gentle touches that soothe away the horrors of Baskerville. Eventually, John feels himself drifting off to sleep.

 

The last thing John is aware of is Sherlock, pressed against his side.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you can drag your hands away from your eyes (or out of your pants) long enough to leave a comment and/or hit the kudos button, you’ll make my day. If you can’t, I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment, as well… ;)


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